


Leave the Horror Here

by rarelypoetic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Demon!Dean, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, M/M, Rough Sex, bottom!Castiel, post-season, season 9 finale, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 10:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarelypoetic/pseuds/rarelypoetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wakes up as a demon and his first thought is to run. Freed from the moral obligations and the heavy conscience that had plagued him as a human, Dean starts to think that becoming a demon was the path that he was always meant for. But does stripping Dean of his humanity make him a different being entirely? Castiel has a theory of his own. (Basically there's blasphemous sex in Heaven.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave the Horror Here

It’s amazing how the world plows on inexorably, despite all of its fissures and festering wounds; despite the bleeding, hungry masses and the deprivation of its cities. Dean had admired the perseverance of humankind as a man. His feelings now are decidedly less virtuous. He finally understands the distaste, the downright _disgust_ that humanity engendered in demons. 

In a hunter’s line of work, there’s no room for caring about particulars. No one wants to know _why_ a demon sees things the way it does, or why it does anything at all, really. But Dean gets it, now. He sees everything so much more clearly with his new eyes. Everything is sharper. Where he’d seen moral rectitude and righteousness before, he now sees desperation, strife, vulnerability. 

There are no good humans in the world, not truly. And as such, there are no good demons, either. But demons don’t deal in terms of ‘good’ or ‘bad’. The words bear no gravity to him anymore. More than anything, Dean feels unfettered, freed in a sense that he could never quite achieve as a man. 

He’s still poison, and he believes that with a unshakeable certainty - one that had followed him into death and right back into the land of the living. But it’s no longer a hard truth to swallow. He is empowered by it now.

When he opens his eyes as a demon, he feels alive for the first time in decades. 

\- 

Dean knows his brother well enough to know that it’s a bad idea to hang around. Sure, if he starts asking questions, Dean can just knock him out (he’s not sure why that never occurred to him as a human), but Dean knows Sam isn’t stupid _or_ incapable. They’ve been hunting together long enough for Dean to know just how handy Sam is with Ruby’s knife. Though he’s not sure his brother would have the fortitude to kill him, Dean doesn’t want anyone or anything to get in his way right now. 

It’s his first day out of the shackles of his humanity, and he’s ready to raise a little hell.  
He heads do0wn to the garage first, making sure to bypass the library, where he’s sure Sam is either passed out drunk or researching to take his mind off of his poor dead brother in the other room. Dean has to stifle a laugh at the thought of it. At least he knows Sam isn’t looking for a way to bring him back this time. He’d said he wouldn’t a few months ago, and Dean couldn’t be happier about that now. No need to complicate things. (Although he suspects Sam will have a hard time accepting the fact that Dean’s corpse just disappeared out of thin air.)

The garage is just as he remembers, only with the black veil over his eyes he can see a whole other layer of things on top of the dusty old old car parts strewn about. There’s a sort... spiritual resonance that lingers on certain objects, namely the ones that remain from when the bunker was the MOL headquarters.. Dean can sense it just the same as he can smell the mustiness of the space and feel the dampness in the air. It’d probably feel chilly in here to a human, but Dean is impervious to it now. His body registers the temperature and stores it as another piece of sensory information, but it doesn’t affect him the same way it would if he were still human. This body is stronger - this body is _more_ in some inexplicable, immense way.

Dean walks to his car at a measured pace, taking in all of this new sensory information at once. He’s so distracted that he almost doesn’t feel the air shift around him, almost misses the telltale charge in the air that tells him someone else has arrived. Before, the only way to distinguish a demon arrival from an angel arrival was the sound of wings that an angel made as it re-entered the mortal plane. Now, his body jolts with a second awareness the moment _he_ appears. It takes him a millisecond to determine he’s in the company of another demon, and about another half-second to realize- 

“ _Crowley_.” It comes out as a bit of an over-zealous growl. Dean feels his eyes flicker to black involuntarily. He turns around to see Crowley raising an unimpressed eyebrow at him, mocking without a word. 

“I see your impotence has crossed the species barrier,” Crowley says. And Dean is relieved to know that he still hates him, still feels his hackles raise at the sound of his insufferably smug voice. 

“Why are you here?” Dean snaps. 

“I thought you might want a few pointers before you go gallivanting around town,” Crowley says, deceptively casual. Dean’s shoulders remain an unbroken line of tension. Crowley sighs and takes a step closer. “Welcome to your second life, Squirrel. Would you like a tour?” 

“No.” Dean bypasses Crowley, unlocks his car, and slides into the driver’s seat before Crowley can get another word in. As the engine is turning over, Crowley takes it upon himself to pop into the passenger’s seat. “Get the fuck out,” Dean says shortly. 

“And here I thought you’d be grateful for my hospitality.” 

“I’d be grateful if you’d disappear forever.”

Crowley puts a hand to his heart in a parody of devastation. “Now, love, let’s not be rash-”

Dean extracts the first blade from the inner pocket of his leather jacket and holds it to Crowley’s throat in the span of a heartbeat. “If I were you, I’d listen up,” he says darkly. Dean leans forward so that he can be sure his hot breath will warm Crowley’s cheek. “If you don’t get out of my car in the next second, I will not hesitate to eviscerate you. We have no business together anymore.” 

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Crowley says slyly, swallowing against the pressure of the blade.  
“We could be good together, you and I.” 

“The only person I’m interested in dealing with right now is myself,” Dean says. “And maybe a warm body or two.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Barely half an hour as a superior species, and the first thing on your agenda is to get laid?” 

Dean stares at him blankly, unflinching. Eventually Crowley shrugs. “Well, I can’t say I really blame you. Speaking from experience, demon stamina is really something to behold.”

Dean presses the blade more firmly into Crowley’s skin, drawing a fine line of blood and restricting his air flow. 

“In the interest of full disclosure, your brother summoned me an hour ago sounding rather put-out about your untimely death. Of course, I was already in the area to witness your resurrection, but poor little Moose was none the wiser. If you want it to stay that way...”

“I don’t care what Sam does or doesn’t know. The only reason I didn’t tell him is because he would get in the way.” Nonetheless, Dean’s grip on the blade slackens. 

“Really?” Crowley asks, false interest coloring his tone. “So you wouldn’t be at all disheartened if I happened to let the news slip? Or if, say, your brother started hunting you down, desperate to cure you? Is that really the kind of trouble you want to be dealing with now that you’re home-free?” 

Dean heaves a great sigh. “What do you want, Crowley?”

“I want you to recognize that we could be useful to each other. I realize we haven’t had the best working relationship in the past, but now that we’re on common ground... well, I was thinking we could have a sort of, ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ kind of arrangement.”

Dean snorts. “I don’t need anything from you.” 

“Oh, Dean, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s lonely out there for a newly instated demon. I know all kinds of neat tricks. Centuries of information that I’m willing to share with you for the small price of being my associate - no, companion.”

“I’d rather burn in eternal Hell,” Dean says, then smiles viciously like he’s withholding the punchline to a great joke. “Oh, wait.” 

“Really? Think long and hard, Dean. What have you wanted for ages now? What made your piteous human heart beat just a tad faster?”

 _Angel_.

“Where is he?” Dean snarls. 

“Didn’t even have to name-drop. I knew you’d come aroun-”

Dean lunges at him, pinning the first blade over Crowley’s left lapel and then drawing it down slowly until it digs into his ribcage, right beneath his heart. He presses in until he feels the bones give under the blade, until Crowley lurches in his seat and gives Dean a look like _’you wouldn’t dare’_.

“Where,” Dean barks. 

Crowley wraps his hand around the blade and meets Dean’s black eyes head-on. After a moment of scrutinization he seems to determine something. “Well, don’t say I didn’t try to reason with you, Muffin.” 

Crowley reaches forward and pats his cheek patronizingly, and Dean almost impales him right then and there on principle. He sighs. “Last I heard, he was upstairs sweeping the floor with Metatron. Now I’d wager he’s trying to find a way to outlast his borrowed angel juice. Wherever that may take him is beyond my vast awareness.” 

“How do I find him?” Dean asks, marginally more civil.

“Best guess? The angel called Hannah. She was seen with him that last time I sent my feelers out for recon.” 

Dean remembers Hannah well. Last time he saw her, she had wanted him dead. Dean withdraws the blade swiftly and pockets it. It’s tempting to kill Crowley right this very second, but he does still have a network of demons at his fingertips, and he could prove to be useful. But ‘useful’ is sometimes a double-edged sword, Dean knows, and as soon as Crowley is more trouble than he’s worth, Dean will tear him apart and take his place on the throne. 

Crowley opens his mouth to prattle on about something else, but Dean closes his eyes and ignores him. Since he’s woken up, he has felt something different beneath surface of his skin. This something is thin as gossamer thread and lies just below his flesh, constantly tickling him. Now, as he concentrates, it prickles against his second awareness like a spindle to a thumb, makes his every molecule feel insubstantial and transient. If he shuts out all the sound and focuses solely on this thread, he finds that this insubstantial part of him can reach out and _tug_. He does so as hard as he can, all the while focusing on a picture of whiteness and purity and terrible power in his mind. 

When he opens his eyes again, they are black, and he is standing in an open field with a swirling, burning mass of blue light in front of him. A portal. 

Back in the Impala, Crowley seethes a frustrated breath. Of course the twit could teleport now. He should’ve known it wouldn’t take a knight of hell long to figure it out for himself. So much for being Mr. Mentor. 

He gets out of the car and brushes imaginary dust off of his lapels. “Insufferable cretin,” he announces to the empty garage. 

\- 

Castiel finds that the air is harder to breathe in Heaven these days. He doesn’t know if it’s been tainted by the corruption of Metatron, if his very own presence is a stain on its pristine fabric, or even if his stolen grace is impeding his function, but something about it isn’t right. He shouldn’t have to breathe anyway, but he lost the privilege of existing as the multi-dimensional wavelength he was created as when he ate the grace of another angel. Now that his power is waning, existing even in a vessel is difficult for him on this plane. 

Castiel needs to get to Sam before he burns out. The only thing that’s been keeping him away so far is his reluctance to see Dean’s corpse. Knowing is enough. Seeing him... is an altogether different matter. Castiel delays his departure to the mortal plane by making sure all of the angels who choose to remain in Heaven are in order, aren’t yet floundering under Metatron’s absence. They don’t ask him directly, but he can see it in their pulsating grace, twisted and writhing in unangelic desperation - they want to be led. He does not know how to tell them how woefully inadequate he is for that job now, how if he even tried, he fears he might shatter under the weight of it. 

To avoid confrontation, he finds himself retreating often to Metatron’s old office, taking a kind of sick comfort in its myriad books and archaic human treasures. He’s running his fingertips over the old typewriter keys, contemplating what he will say to Sam, when it happens.

Despite his limited awareness, his body knows the instant that a demon enters Heaven. It shouldn’t be possible for a low-level one to breach the barrier, but this is something of an entirely different caliber, and his fading grace scalds him with the intensity of its presence. It feels familiar. 

Castiel knows it’s nonsensical, knows that all of the Knights are dead now, but even so-

Hannah bursts into the room panting. “Castiel,” she says, firmness belying her trembling hands, her raw fear. “We have a visitor. He- it’s heading straight towards you.” 

“Get out of here, Hannah,” Castiel says immediately, rising from his seat. His despondency dissipates in the face of her panic, suddenly replaced by a protectiveness the likes of which he’d often directed towards humankind in the past. Old instincts die hard, he guesses.

She visibly hesitates, so he slams his hand down on the desk to convey the urgency of his request. “Leave!”

She looks at him one last time before her grace refracts and instantaneously eats up the visage of her pretty-faced vessel. She is a mass of light and energy now, and she scatters before Castiel can blink. 

His heart beats solid staccato in his chest and his grace burns in his gut. Whatever this is, if it’s the end, he’s ready. He has no other reason to exist anymore. He’s outstayed his purpose. 

And then his reason walks into the room. 

-

Who knew it would be so easy? 

Dean saunters into Heaven like the goddamn Messiah. But instead of people kneeling before him, kissing his feet, there are angels exploding into wavelengths all around, evaporating out of their vessels and dispersing far and wide before they can feel his taint scald them. God, it feels _good_ to be here, to feel his caustic presence seeping into the white lining of Heaven and staining it black. 

But beneath that satisfaction is the pull. He can taste Castiel on the back of his tongue. 

Dean is leisurely in his pursuit, relishing every single scorned grace he passes, blood boiling with the hunt. He only kills a single angel - the one called Eremiel who guards the place that Castiel is in. No one else got in his way. The rest of the angels are distractions. He can wipe them all out later. First, he has business to attend to. 

When he finally gets to the door that Castiel is behind, the taste on his tongue is stronger. More pungent. He’s practically gagging for it at this point. 

He opens the door and walks in calmly. The thought of kicking it down had been appealing, but he’d vetoed it on account of the fact that his new face would make up for the lack of theatrics. And he’s right. The moment Castiel sees him, every inch of him shudders in one long spasm, like his body is glitching and he can’t find the fail-safe.

Castiel stares for a long time, eyes unseeing, and Dean realizes that for the first time he’s looking at more than just a man in a trenchcoat. Unlike the other angels, Castiel is still in his vessel, but it’s probably out of necessity judging by the sorry state of his grace. The light of it, though pale, infuses every atom of his vessel, glows out of his pores in starbright pinpricks. There’s a distinctive golden blue ring of light resting above the crown of his head, something that Dean presumes is a halo of some sort. He swallows and refocuses on the tangible - the flesh that Castiel wears like a well-worn suit. 

Castiel says, in a very small voice, “No," and then turns away. 

Dean feels a jolt of unadulterated ire dredge up from the depths of him; it propels him forward until he’s within inches of Castiel. Up close his grace jars against the viscous smoke inside of Dean, abrasive and utterly _unholy_. Dean snatches a hold of Castiel’s shoulder and the wrongness abruptly dissolves into the ether. 

The black smoke in Dean’s head clears enough for him to speak. “Are you too good for me now, _Angel_?” he snarls. 

Castiel whips around and meets his dark eyes defiantly. There’s nothing but righteous fury smoldering in them, no trace of hatred or sanctimoniousness. The set of his jaw tells Dean that he’s livid. “How could you do this to yourself, Dean?” 

He says it with all of the angelic tenor he used on Dean when they first met. As a human, Dean might have recoiled. Now, he digs his fingers harder in the meat of Castiel’s shoulder, feels an acerbic laugh curl on his tongue. 

“This is the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me,” Dean boasts, eyes alight. His mouth stretches into a wide grin. He licks his lips. 

“How can you say that? _How_ can you say that when you’re not even-” Castiel jostles in his grip, fuming, hands scrabbling, clawing for purchase on Dean’s shirt. “You’re not even you.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Dean uses his grip on Castiel to drive him into the wall behind them. Castiel struggles, but quickly finds that he is out of his depth. It’s thrilling to wield this much power. Thrilling to be able to control a once-powerful being like this. “I’m a better me than I ever could have been before. All of my faults? All of my weaknesses? Those are gone now.” 

Dean presses in closer to Castiel and lifts his chin with an index finger so that they are once again eye to eye. His eyes flicker to black. “I’m free, _Cas_ ,” he spits. 

Castiel bucks against him and then freezes all at once, entire body going slack beneath him.

Dimly, Dean is aware that his cock is growing hard pressed against Castiel’s thigh. He is aware that their closeness is arousing to him, and he is also aware that Castiel’s heartbeat has practically tripled where he can feel it beating against his own hollow chest. He can almost feel the echo of his human self recoiling in horror at this situation; he knows that human Dean would have wrapped himself in layer after layer of denial and self-repression at the mere suggestion of intimacy with Castiel. But he has no such reservations as a demon. And right about now? 

He wants a fucking taste. 

Castiel shudders prettily as Dean swipes his tongue along the long bare column of his throat. His fingers come up to latch onto Dean’s biceps, flexing helplessly. Dean licks a path over his carotid artery and ends with a harsh nip directly over his pulse point. 

“You’re so fucking pure, aren’t you?” Dean mocks. He presses a cutting smile into in the juncture of Castiel’s neck and bites down again. “I want you. Want to destroy you, sully you. Bring you down to my level for once.” 

Castiel pulls away from him, eyes swimming. “You know better than anyone that I’m not a saint, Dean.” 

-

Castiel’s words seem to incense Dean. He can’t understand why. It’s the plain truth. There’s nothing left of him to sully. He’s already been on Dean’s level, and lower than that, too. He’s been dirt. He _is_ dirt. 

“Don’t say that,” Dean snarls. He wraps a broad palm around Castiel’s throat and squeezes just enough to make Castiel hitch a breath. “You’re an angel. You’ve always been a step higher than those monkeys down below, huh?” 

Castiel stares at him blankly, utterly bewildered. The mask of wrath on Dean’s face slips for a moment. “And what you must think of me now...” 

Dean gives his head a violent shake as if to clear it. Castiel breathes out evenly and says, “I don’t think anything of who you are now except that I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’m sorry, and... and I should have been there to stop it. To save you.” 

Dean’s eyes flicker to spring green for a second before slipping back into black, so quick Castiel almost doesn’t catch it. Almost. “I believe,” Castiel goes on, “that there’s still a part of you who’s the Dean I know.”

“I don’t know who that Dean is anymore,” Dean says frankly. The anger in his voice is tempered with resignation. “I don’t want to know.” 

“I do,” Castiel says. He wraps a hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him down to press a soft kiss to his creased forehead, a blessing of sorts. Dean lets himself be kissed but jerks away as soon as it’s over. He looks down at Castiel like he’s done a something at once both horrible and wondrous. 

“I-” Castiel starts, but is interjected by the insistent press of a mouth against his own. Dean’s kiss is biting and harsh, and Castiel has no way of knowing if this is how he would have kissed as a human, or if this is just a symptom of the larger picture now. He pushes back into it nonetheless, lips moving feverishly, like a man tasting water after a lifelong drought. It’s too much. He feels like he’s going to drown in it. 

But Dean too is immersed in the kiss like Castiel is oxygen in the center of a airless universe. Dean’s tongue enters the equation with a quick swipe along the seam of his lips, and Castiel lets him in because he’s been craving this for too long; he wants a part of Dean inside of him. He’ll take what he can get. 

Dean pulls his mouth away to bite at his earlobe and Castiel squirms, feeling himself stir in his trousers. Dean immediately reaches down and cups a hand around Castiel’s covered cock like he can smell how much he wants this. 

“Need you,” Castiel groans against his throat. 

“Do you?” Dean rasps, a bit of his earlier belligerence seeping into his tone. He undulates his body against Castiel’s, a long line of searing heat. “What d’you think, Cas? You think you deserve this? Want me to fuck you like the good fuckin’ angel you are?” 

“Hardly an angel anymore,” Castiel snaps, feeling himself grow harder despite himself. “But yes, Dean.”

Castiel smiles ruefully. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Dean’s hands drop to his belt buckle and undo it in an instant like he’d been waiting on a hair trigger this entire time. He unbuttons his own pants next, yanking down the zipper clumsily and not bothering to pull the pants down at all. He takes his cock out without hesitation, allowing it to breath for a moment before he boxes Castiel in closer to the wall and pins their hips together. Castiel stutters out a breath and pulls his own pants and underwear down to his thighs in one fluid movement. 

This close, their cocks are touching, nestled in together. Dean wraps his huge hand around both of them at once and jerks a few times, getting them warmed up. Castiel feels his blood spike at being touched by him, can hardly believe that this is his reality now.

Castiel is dribbling a truly inordinate amount of precome onto both of them now, and Dean looks both sadistically amused and turned on by the sight. 

“Bet you’ve never gotten so wet before,” Dean sneers. He thumbs the slit of Castiel’s cock cruelly, laughs at the raw sound it tears from his throat. More precome beads at the tip and wets Dean’s thumb. He uses it for lubricant to slide their cocks slickly together a few more times. Castiel feels the muscles in his abdomen clench and release, feels like he could burst at any moment. 

His orgasm is staved off last minute by Dean letting go of his cock and instead redirecting a hand to his lower back. He rubs there carefully for a moment, like a caring partner might, and then gives up all pretense as he slides his hand lower and roughly palms the meat of Castiel’s ass. He grinds himself against Castiel’s thigh as his right hand joins the other one on his ass. He spreads the cheeks as he continues to rub his cock into the crease between Castiel’s thigh and groin, right at the base of his cock. Castiel can barely breathe with anticipation. He pushes himself more firmly into Dean’s warm hands and busies his mouth with sucking wet kisses along Dean’s collarbone and up onto his neck. 

 

Dean rubs a thick finger between his asscheeks, teasing him. After a minute or so, he pulls back and then slaps his fingers lightly against the hole, making Castiel buck unintentionally. 

“Wanna fuck you into the goddamn floor. Wanna defile you,” Dean breathes into his ear. Somehow, this only makes Castiel more eager. He shows his agreement by spilling fresh precome all over Dean’s cock, getting it copiously wet. 

Dean wastes no further time; he sucks his fingers into his mouth quickly before putting two in Castiel. He immediately starts fucking them in, testing the give of his ass. Castiel moves his hips receptively to the rhythm, hoping impatiently for more. Dean slips another finger in and stretches out all three of them inside of him, loosening him as much as he can. He fucks them in and out for a while and watches as his angel comes apart beneath him. The fourth finger is much harder to fit, but with a little precome lubricant to ease the way, he manages. At this point, Castiel is ready to either come all over him or kill him. Possibly both. Dean grins like a shark at the knowledge, relishing every second of having Castiel right under his thumb. 

“C’mere,” Dean murmurs after a thorough finger-fucking. He pulls his fingers out and grips Castiel’s ass again, slapping it lightly just to feel the flesh ripple under his palms. It takes almost no effort to lift Castiel onto Metatron’s desk and lean over him, back to his belly. In the same movement, he swipes the typewriter and all ofthe other scholarly detritus onto the floor. 

Dean presses his cock firmly to Castiel’s perineum now, rubbing against it at an agonizing pace. “Want me?” 

“Need you,” Castiel corrects, saying it again. It comes out more vulnerable than he expected it to. Dean’s eyes darken, but they flicker back to green in a millisecond as though he’s fighting the change.

Dean moves closer over him and Castiel obediently spreads his thighs further open to accommodate his girth. He leans down and spits directly into Castiel’s hole, then works the spit inside with his index finger. Dean then makes quick work of slicking his cock with saliva and precome - briefly notes that he would never be so inconsiderate to fuck a guy without lube if he were human - and positions himself at Castiel’s open hole. 

“You have no idea,” Dean hisses, sliding forward just so that the tip of his cock presses against the pucker. He bucks his hips and the head begins to press in. Castiel bites his tongue and arches up at the intrusion, going tense all over. “You have no idea what this is like for me.” 

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” Castiel chokes. He breathes hard a few times, feels Dean’s hands kneading into his back, and lets his muscles slowly unwind. Dean slides another inch or two in him and this time it’s better. 

Dean jerks his hips back and forth in abortive little thrusts, easing the way a bit. Castiel lets himself melt into the desk, completely exposed and at the mercy of a demon. And it feels damn good. It feels like freedom and gratification all at once. 

Dean gives one big thrust forward and his cock slides all the way inside Castiel in one go. God, it’s fucking good. He’s so, so full now. He can’t ever imagine being empty again. Dean holds onto Castiel’s thick thighs for leverage and pushes himself in and out in a chaotic rhythm that makes heat coil and snap in Castiel’s stomach. He lets out a half-animal sound, a mangled moan, as Dean’s cock brushes against his prostate for the first time. 

Dean makes it his mission to fuck against his prostate on every other thrust at least, if only to hear the beautiful keen that it draws from Castiel’s the throat, or the lovely red flush it brings to his broad chest. Castiel quickly feels himself being fucked to the edge of coherency, and if Dean’s intermittent grunting and panting is anything to go by, he’s right there with him. 

“Never...” Dean pauses to catch a breath, “never thought I’d have this with you. Never thought I was good enough before.” 

Castiel wonders at the unfairness of it all. Years and years of time wasted, spent just within arm’s reach but constantly evading one another’s touch. It’s frustrating as all hell, makes Castiel want to do something uncharacteristically childish like scream or cry. Shakespeare himself would probably deem his entire existence as a comedic tragedy, and that was being generous. 

Dean fucks forward hard and chases all residual thoughts from Castiel’s head - except for one. 

“Stop,” Castiel says, half-convinced Dean won’t even hear him. But Dean halts almost immediately. 

Castiel props himself up on his elbows and shifts his hips forward so that Dean slips out of him. He rolls over onto his back before he has a chance to complain and guides Dean back inside of his warmth. 

“Wanted to look at you,” Castiel explains quietly as Dean gets to moving again. The angle isn’t as good, but Dean compensates for it well but adjusting his stance and holding Castiel’s hips higher with one hand. He slides the other hand into Castiel’s hair and tugs just this side of too hard, but the little spark of pain only serves to bring Castiel closer. He clenches down hard around the cock inside of him, and Dean takes the opportunity to stay there a moment, resisting the urge to move and just revelling in the feeling of being buried to the hilt. 

“Dean.” 

Dean looks down at him with his entire face unguarded, mouth slack. Castiel leans up and presses a lush, open-mouthed kiss to his lips. “I love you.” 

Dean’s brows draw into a hard line, and Castiel can feel him pulling his defenses up again. His eyes are matte black and placid like a lake in winter. Castiel brings a hand up to his jaw and cups it around the bone. He rubs his thumb in circular motions on Dean’s cheekbone. 

“I loved you as a human and I love you now. You have always been worthy of this.”

Dean blows out a gust of air and turns his face away, blinking several times in a row. His eyes are still black. Castiel knows demons objectively. He knows that their eyes are black when they are angry, when they are afraid, or when they are emotionally vulnerable. It’s a defense mechanism as much as it is a scare tactic. What he can’t decide right now is which one of the three Dean is feeling. 

“You can’t just say - that,” Dean says stiltedly, flatly. “I’m not built like that anymore. I don’t know how to-”

Castiel kisses the corner of his mouth and then his chin, and finally his lips. “We’ll figure it out,” he promises. 

A moment passes in silence, and then, “You know I still have my dick inside you, right?” 

Castiel snorts and flexes his hips, clenching. “I’m very aware.” 

Dean lets out a little moan at the movement and tentatively thrusts forward again. The motion rocks Castiel back a little bit, making his own cock slap lightly against his stomach. He reaches for it curiously but is quickly slapped away by Dean’s hand. 

“You’re gonna come on just my cock if it fucking kills us both,” Dean tells him, slipping back into his casually dominant demeanor. Castiel knocks his head back against the desk in frustration and bucks his hips up so that his cock rubs against Dean’s warm belly. Dean looks scandalized that Castiel would disobey him for about a second before he gets over it and lowers his mid-section so that it’s easier for Castiel to rub against him. 

Dean rubs the head of his cock a few more times against his prostate and that’s all it takes before Castiel is seizing up, muscles in his ass and his abdomen contracting in short pulses. He comes all over his own chest and a little bit on Dean’s. 

“Not bad for an old man,” Dean remarks, grinning lasciviously. Castiel rolls his eyes and impales himself on Dean’s cock again, taking him as deep as he can. Dean eats his own words about a minute later when he comes to Castiel clenching and unclenching purposefully around him. Dean’s orgasm ticks past the ten second mark and into dangerous, unmarked territory. He hasn’t had this good of an orgasm since... fuck. Since before Hell.

He’s still riding out the tail end of it when he pulls out of Castiel and has the satisfaction of watching his come dribble slowly out of his stretched open hole in thin rivulets. Castiel slicks his sweat-matted hair off of his forehead and lies there sedately for a little while. His thighs are spread still, cock lying soft and pink between them, and his chest is still flushed with blood and covered in bits of drying come. Dean can’t stop looking at him. 

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says finally, unabashed.

Castiel blinks at him in surprise. Dean shrugs. 

“One good thing about being a demon,” Dean remarks, “is that I can say whatever shit I want. It’s like I have no filter anymore.”

Castiel’s mouth twists in a wry, half-adoring smile. “I don’t think you ever had much of one in the first place.”

Dean shoves him hard in the shoulder but Castiel barely feels it through his post-orgasmic haze. They’re both quiet for a moment, thinking. 

“You really think we’ll make it through this?” Dean asks. 

“Well, no promises,” Castiel says. “The last time we had this talk-” he stops. 

“Metatron stabbed me in the chest and I died a bloody death,” Dean finishes unflinchingly. 

“Exactly.”

“We seem to get a lot of second chances, don’t we?” 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “Though perhaps it’s not unwarranted. You are good, Dean. Despite everything. You deserve so much more than this.” 

“Drop it, Cas.” Dean huffs a mean laugh, eyes no longer green. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you could see me for who- _what_ I really am.”

“I do see you, Dean,” Castiel says. There’s something oddly reverent in his eyes. “You know I’ve never met a demon with a real soul before?” 

“What?” Dean asks incredulously. 

“You didn’t become a demon the usual way,” Castiel explains. “Most demons, as you know, start off as human souls and are twisted and warped beyond recognition in Hell, to the point where they are reduced to mottled contortions of pure entropy. You, on the other hand...” 

Castiel places a hand in the center of his chest and holds it there, a warm brand on Dean’s skin. “I can feel your soul still, even enshrouded in all of that darkness.” 

Dean swallows thickly. Castiel meets his black eyes and doesn’t look away. “So I do see you, Dean; I see two faces when I look at you now - your demon one and your human one alike - but that changes nothing. You are still the righteous man I pulled from Hell, only now you are other things, too.” 

Dean cannot quite grasp the enormity of what Castiel is telling him. Is there still a chance for him? Is that even possible after all that’s happened? Dean looks at Castiel’s earnest face and feels calm for the first time since waking up. No, since he first had the mark of Cain branded on him. 

The storm inside him slows so drastically that he suddenly forgets its impetus. For the time in his _life_ , Dean Winchester thinks he might have a shot at redemption.

**Author's Note:**

> that was by far the dirtiest thing I've ever written.... "oops". So I literally wrote this between the times of 4:00 am - 9:00 am and I'm a little too burnt out to read over it. If you spot any issues please feel free to let me know <3
> 
> I'm at excaliburcas.tumblr.com btw, if anyone is interested in talking to me about deancas/season 1-10/anything really. Also always open to good fic suggestions too, even if it's a self-promo!!


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